Big smile and deep breath to fill the lungs with air and with eyes closed and head back, belts out: “So imagine I was glad to hear you’re coming. Suddenly I feel all right. And it’s gonna be so different when I’m on the stage toniiiiiiiiight…”
Rolls eyes, “See?!”
“I think the word we’re looking for here is ‘eclectic’”
I am an ABBA freak. Have you ever heard of those people who would willingly pay millions for them to get back together? That would be me, if I had millions. But there’s something about those opening cords of Waterloo that gets my heart all aflutter. And a rush of joy overcomes me and I sing along. Terribly out of tune of course, but like my life depends on it, while wishing that I had been born just a decade earlier and I sigh. It’s nothing to be embarrassed about, au contraire, it’s something I’ve learned to wear as a badge of honor, that I know all the words to SOS and will belt it out proudly. Not to mention that while Mama Mia has a catchy little tune, Fernando is so much better.
Anyway, I’m sure I’m not the only person in the world who feels that it may have been her true calling to sport gold lycra spandex and an afro, though I'll admit that if I could pull off the feathered look, I would totally go for it. Ok, maybe the only person to want the latter, but not the only person in the world who has an affinity for a group and/or singer that many would be embarrassed by. Right?
*maybe later, we'll discuss my propensity to listen to country and bluegrass daily.
“Nerves and butterflies are fine - they're a physical sign that you're mentally ready and eager. You have to get the butterflies to fly in formation, that's the trick.” ~Steve Bull
During brunch yesterday, I was called cynical. Or rather that my writing is quite cynical, which I will gladly admit that it is. I’m cynical and woefully pessimistic, especially at the present moment. Except that it’s all hitting me now. All of my grandeur notions and dreams and…bleh…fantasies of the next few weeks going smoothly, have been tossed out the window. Only to be replaced by dread and doom of apocalyptic proportions. I don’t need to hear that things will be fine and that it doesn’t really matter. Because it fucking does matter and it is a really big deal. I want to shake people when they forget or when they cast aside my personal feelings on something just to shrug it off as if I’m some crazy person who is continually blowing things out of proportion. While yes, that might very well be true, it doesn’t make how uneasy I’m feeling right now, any better. It doesn’t make me any less nervous or anxious or cause me to become a rational person, when lambasted for feeling this way. Why can’t I just be nervous and fretful in peace?
Now excuse me, I have some additional lamenting to do, but I will try to keep it to myself.
And you could always nominate me for a Hoagie if you have any interest in making me feel better. Ahem.
"Is that a birthday? 'tis, alas! too clear; 'Tis but the funeral of the former year." ~Alexander Pope
Oh, did you really think that my red wine loving ass would actually be hungover right now and/or in the fetal position in an alley in Adam’s Morgan? Alas not. I actually spent my 23rd birthday evening with a very good looking blond. Like really, really good looking, jaw droppingly handsome and so very sweet.
I’d show you a picture but because the internet is apparently chock full of assholes full of more vitriol and hate than I could ever, ever claim to have, so I cannot. But my God, you should be jealous.
Tonight there will be gnocchi, camembert and wine with some of my favorites (though you two and you know who you are, will surely be missed) and I will not think about being dramatic or that I’m a bad person or how bizarre some things are. I will enjoy myself and be very willing to start this 23rd year with an open mind and I might even remove that protective barrier I’ve come to know and love.
So, thank you all for the wonderful birthday wishes and have a most splendid weekend.
P.S. Have you heard of the Hoagies?? No! Then get the to Heather Anne post haste
P.P.S. What?! You’ve not heard of Heather Anne?? Ohh, so you’ve been living under the same rock that I’ve been under. The light, it’s so bright…
"A birthday is just the first day of another 365-day journey around the sun. Enjoy the trip." ~Author Unknown
November Horoscope, courtesy of InStyle:
(My thoughts, commentary and embellishments included once again for dramatic purposes, boredom, exhaustion and because I fucking can)
You’ll have plenty to celebrate this month(and year)as good fortune comes your way. (Newsflash! Hell freezes over! Pigs fly!)
Unexpected news about a relationship arrives around the 4th; you may make plans to marry your romantic partner or enter a new business alliance. (A relationship? Which? Probably my relationship with red wine. I knew that it was getting too much with one of us physically abusing the other. But the other half of this relationship just couldn’t walk away. It will get better, promise. Making plans to marry a romantic partner would imply actual romance other than my intense relationship with grapes and dill havarti. A new business alliance is highly unlikely unless I finally get that McDonald’s franchise I’ve always dreamed about. In fact, I have always dreamed of that. Owning a piece of the golden arches is every young girl’s fantasy. Maybe we should worry about my relationship with fries, fish filets and diet coke?) You are also entering a strong financial period, so invest in upgrading your looks. (Exactly how strong is this financial period?? Because depending on said ‘strength’ I’ll invest in my looks, the stock market, a home in Belize, psychotherapy, cable, the aforementioned McDonald’s new boots, an actual bed, pants that fit, a hair cut, a smart car, the Giants and TiVo)
Make an appointment for eyelash extensions, or splurge on those gorgeous brocade pumps and you’ll soon be basking in compliments. (I shall invest in brocade then, better wit, more intelligence. All while shedding my cynicism, narcissism, pessimism, materialism and insert any other inhibiting –ism here)
(I shall also invest in Tylenol cold and sinus, Theraflu and a most excellent 23rd year)
Edit to Add: COUGH, COUGH. Ahem. Especially that fourth category, unless you are voting for Heather Anne, and then I guess that's ok.
“The past is strapped to our backs. We do not have to see it; we can always feel it.” ~Mignon McLaughlin, The Neurotic's Notebook, 1960
If there were a group called Over thinkers Anonymous (OA™); I would be its President with much fanfare and praise for those with the uncanny ability to think about things until they become obsessed in hopes for preparing for every single outcome possible. It’s a wonder that I didn’t do well in math given my propensity to figure out the probability of all things to come. Which brings me to why I’m suddenly obsessed with my ten year high school reunion. “But surely she jests” you scoff “For she’s a mere babe”. True, yes. My ten year high school reunion will be in 2011. But I feel like I must have adequate time to prepare for such a thing. I need something to be proud of and talk about despite how well I can hold my liquor.
Thus the reason for during those rare occasions home, I tend to shy away from any location where I might run into someone from high school, because then I might be forced to speak in coherent sentences with proper structuring. And God forbid, I pepper my speech with the ‘f’ word and my thoughts on Malbec, because I really have nothing else to say. Not necessarily because nothing is going on but because…well…I just don’t know what to say to these people, short of ‘durrrrr’, which is the primary reason for moving 400 plus miles away to a city where I have my own (relatively) happy life.
Fast forward to a random Sunday a few weeks ago, I was headed towards Dunkin Donuts (for coffee) after the gym. I’m a Dunkin Donuts whore from way back in the day, when I used to skip math class and head over to the closest DD in my minivan to smoke Marlboro lights and procure hazelnut coffee. A rebel, I tell you. So while headed to the Dunkin Donuts, looking disheveled (natch) I looked up and saw a familiar face. The face of someone with whom I had spent hours with in the library of Guilderland High School, commiserating over our disdain for Honors English and his disdain for Hillary Clinton and well, there was that time he came out of the closet. But there, he was, standing at the door of Dunkin Donuts in DC staring back at me. And I was in lycra and sporting a pseudo fro held up with a headband (Men of DC: Call me!) and so I had to endure small talk dressed as such, and laden not with spontaneous ‘fucks’ but with ‘durrrr…donuts…Albany’ (Men of DC: I’m a great conversationalist, to boot!)
Fast forward again to a random Monday night, Columbus Day in fact, during a quickie trip to the Urban Outfitters in Gallery Place. I was hot and sweaty in cashmere and oily because my t-zone hates me after and frizzy hair because my hair hates me…oh, about 24/7. And it was during this quickie trip that the line was 30 people deep and there was one lone employee at the register. Up at the front was a girl purchasing 450 items including – and I’m loathe to write this – leggings. Green leggings. So I am now sweaty and annoyed and oily and frizzy. The lo and behold the girl at the front of the line whips around and stares right at me. My heart skips a beat with the recognition of another! Person! From! High school! And I quickly put my head down in deep prayer of hope that she won’t realize that it’s me, to which she yells out “HEATHER!” To which I reply with a meek “hey” with that added oompf of “oh holy mother fucker”. And I cringe and want to curl up in a ball and forget about my fabulous sweaters. But I stick it out through small talk and exchanging of cards and me whimpering inside.
You see the problem with all of this is that I wasn’t cool in high school and have never been cool. I am friends with cool people, but I? I am as cool as Velcro sneakers and aquanet, not that I was actually alive for the advent of aquanet, but you get my point. And so to see people from high school in my territory gives me hives and makes me want to die a little inside. Not because it was such torture and the teen angst, though I did listen to a lot of Greenday, it’s because my brain doesn’t compute. It doesn’t understand that high school was over June 24, 2001. And that a hell of a lot has happened since then and while I may still not be cool (Men of DC: Check out my crazy HTML coding skills!) or anything, I’m probably different and smarter and I chock full of vitriol and funny stories and a collection of Coach bags, but I still have that fear that ‘they’, whoever the infamous ‘they’ might be, will hate me and snicker.
So! I have four(ish) years to further analyze and obsess, invest in Murad skin care and teach my hair to lay the fuck down already. And adding a few more Coach bags to the collection couldn’t hurt.
“No matter where you go or what you do, you live your entire life within the confines of your head.” ~Terry Josephson
I’m in a list making mood as of late, because I find them cathartic. Sometimes it’s easier to get things out without fleshing them out in pristine paragraph form. Sometimes, when hurt or angry or in desperate need to just sit and think, it’s much too trying on the psyche to make things flow.
1) I make a kick ass linguine with white wine clam sauce.
2) When purchasing white wine for said linguine, solely for a recipe, I cannot just use the opened wine for cooking. Because it’s open wine, why let it go to waste? So, what do I do? I drink half the bottle. Again, waste not.
3) Watching Love Actually and/or Somethings Gotta Give and/or any movie that alludes to any sort of love (unrequited or not) is hard enough without the added feeling of wanting to stab the object of your ‘like’ between the eyes with a spork. Hard.
4) There’s nothing sexier than an interception. Especially a Barber doing the interception.
5) I’ve probably said this over and over again, but DC has a great blogger scene. Though some find it cliquey and pretentious, I find it fun and we have MONTHLY happy hours. Because a drunk blogger is a happy blogger. There also can be slight drama from time to time. I’m awful at recapping each HH because I’m too hungover in the morning to write anything comprehensive or cohesive. Wait, that’s every morning. Regardless, this past one was most stellar and only furthered my questioning of why people feel the need to hate. Jealousy perhaps? Who knows. Whatever the case, well played, DCB & Sally (yes, I do heart you) and the lovely V.
6) The above is probably because I’ve stopped giving a shit about what people think about me. Yeah, I’m weird and quirky and I really have no time or energy to care about whether or not you approve of what I do. Period.
7) So that we’re all clear, I’m nowhere near 24. I have a solid 368 days until my 24th birthday.
“Wisdom doesn't necessarily come with age. Sometimes age just shows up all by itself.” ~Tom Wilson
With just a few days until my 23rd birthday, I've been put on notice that there are things that I need to work on apparently. In such, I’ve decided to condense them all to a single list of things to check off as the next 365 days go by, in hopes of bettering me for society. Notes and letters may be fictionalized for dramatic purposes, humorous effect and because I am a Scorpio.
Oh precious daughter of mine,
Pay for it your own damn self
Love you the moon and the stars, Mom P.S. Alcohol expands your waist line.
You're egregious mistakes and annoying behavior, make us want to choke a bitch. Stop. Please and thank you.
Cordially, The World
To the Owner of the Mercury Sable at the corner of Wisconsin and M:
We wanted to take the time out of our ever busy schedule of catching murderers and rape suspects to question your decision of parking in a metro bus zone. Really? In a metro bus zone? The hazard lights were a nice touch, but no.
Here's a ticket to add to your collage, MPD
We love and adore you. But we're so.much.better.than.you. Stop being lame.
Love, Your friends
I wanted and received a girl. Now, if you could keep from calling during football games solely to discuss every single solitary detail down to the formation of the ribs on the plate and the flavor of the barbeque sauce, then I might actually enjoy talking to you.
*** To my soul mate and most beautiful woman in all the land,
I give to you my heart and the $10K I won last week. Also first dibs on my collection. Marry Me?
Love, Michael Knight**
*** To my host organism,
Cirrhosis of the liver is so not sexy. Why must you treat me this way? If you don't stop, I'm jumping ship.
Love, Your liver
*no, really, he calls me Beanie. What's worse? Peg calls me "Beanie Barbum". But neither are as bad as "HeathBar Crunch" **I don’t know who won yet. I won’t know until 4 PM EST. If you tell me before that time, I cannot be held responsible for what I might do to you.
“Right now everything is great, everyone is happy, everyone is in love and that is wonderful. But you gotta know that sooner or later you're gonna be screaming at each other about who's gonna get this dish. This eight dollar dish will cost you a thousand dollars in phone calls to the legal firm of That's Mine, This Is Yours.” – Harry Burns*
The title there is a straight up lie; a relationship expert, I surely am not, which may or may not be a surprise to most of you. In fact, I’m pretty sure I’m the least knowledgeable person ever. This due to a myriad of things including, but surely not limited to: misanthropy, a protection mechanism, lack of social graces, and narcissism. Most days I’m pretty sure I’ll end up in a convent. That is if a convent would accept me and forgive my rampant use of the f-word, but then I’d have to accept strictly wearing black and white for many years, and that just wouldn’t work out either. But I digress.
Anyway, my lack of experience has been plaguing me for some unknown reason as of late and in that same vein, many of my friends – perhaps too many for my liking as they should all be happy and not have to deal with bullshit – have been having some relationship woes of their own. The beauty of this is that they are then willing to share their vast knowledge with me. Given that most are both older and considerably wiser, I appreciate it, listen and take copious notes. In fact I have even taken the liberty of printing them out to read as my mantra over my morning coffee:
If you sleep with your ex and then the person you're seeing asks you if you did, do not give off the tell tale signs of liars (read: growing nose), while denying it.
If you do something particularly unsavory to your significant other and s/he in turn, breaks up with you, do not call/IM/communicate via courier pigeon/fax/send smoke signal messages of love and desire between the hours of 12:30 AM and 7:30 AM.
Now the above are all quality things to know and because I’ve been fortunate to receive these gems from my very dear friends, I, being the kind hearted person that I am, have decided to share them with you. And in turn I ask that you share any relationship advice with me, because I am severely lacking. My only request is that it’s good and helpful and something that I wouldn’t readily think of by myself. Because really, how would I know not to date a possible homosexual**?
“Clearly, then, the city is not a concrete jungle, it is a human zoo.” ~Desmond Morris, The Human Zoo
I make fun of the tourists. I do. Because they’re just so damn entertaining traipsing through the capital in their shorts and sandals with socks while stopping in the middle of the sidewalk at the Supreme Court to get a view of Antonin. I mean really? What’s not to love about these charming individuals?
They also get to take these great little trolley tours and the duck tour (Converts from boat to bus. Yippee!), which I’m sure are great and possibly informative. Then they take their little trips to “I’m rich and shopping and too good for you” land AKA Georgetown (but I don’t hate, I love me some Georgetown). And they think that they’re seeing the real nation’s capital. “Look, Honey! There’s Tim Russert! In his Lexus” Then they get happy when they see Sam Brownback on the street and it’s all la-di-fucking-da. (“DC is so fabulous. Let’s stay forever”)
The tourists miss out on the awesomeness that it is to live here. From up on high in their tours, they miss the black man in an old Mercedes Benz being chased by police at through Shaw. Hell, they probably don’t know where Shaw is. Here’s a hint: Not near the Jimmy Choo in Chevy Chase! They’d also miss out on the joy of driving home on a random Saturday evening and lo’ there is police tape. And what is that on the ground? AHA! Of course, a body. An actual dead person on the ground. (“DC is so charming! Such lifelike Halloween decorations!”)
Which means that they’d also miss out on the joy of trying to console oneself after viewing said body on the ground. Thus they would never get lost at and inadvertently drive to Landover. But then, they would miss out on the joy of seeing where Redskins play (READ: Lose) or realize the wonder that is Pennsylvania Ave. - in SE, not that safe 1600 block at Northwest- at 2 AM (READ: Holyfuckingshitballs, I could have died!)
So really, it’s all in jest. I actually feel bad for the tourists; because they have to miss out on all of this joy and wonder of living in this spectacularly wonderful city. It’s like the happiest place on Earth, right next to Disney World. That is if Disney World had a high crime rate and Mickey and Minnie were its very bitter (yet brilliant) residents.
“Fate tried to conceal him by naming him Smith.” ~Oliver Wendell Holmes, Jr.
The idea of a woman changing her last name to be that of her husband’s, is often a rather contentious debate. Will she or won’t she? Hyphenated? Some sort of hybrid perhaps? It’s something that I’ve always been on the fence about. I’m content with my full name. Though it is rather bland, it just works; Peg and El Padre knew what they were doing. I suppose would depend on what I would be changing it to and the complication of going about such a thing. Hell, I have a hard time going to the DMV just to register my car, so I’ll be damned if I’m going through any bureaucratic cesspool to change my Social Security card, credit cards and subscription to Washingtonian. There’s also the question of why we live in such a patriarchal society where this is still rather expected of women as the norm. And the question of whether or not we as women want to have the same last name as our children or get the peculiar looks of complete strangers as to why little Bobby and I do not have the same name (Quick answer: None of your damn business).
Whatever name I end up with if – big IF - I get married, I want it to flow. I want to have a good meaning. I don’t want to marry a man whose last name is ‘Bundy’ because I don’t want to spend the rest of my till death (or divorce) do you part days, being associated with a serial killer. It needs to be a good strong name with deep roots possibly related to some old money, but I won’t be too picky. It’s just been on my mind as of late, not that there is a possibility of marriage anytime in the near future, but I suppose that in a way, I do have prospects; Men whose names I would gladly take:
Heather Knight: Has a nice ring to it, no? It represents good style and fashion design. A husband full of good nature and he’s the fan favorite. I don’t even mind the braces. It’s hip hop goes to St. Tropez. It’s a ray of sunshine in a world of cloudy, serious ugly and that’s what really matters. I’d be married to a man who loves his mother and knows a woman’s body (so to speak). A real keeper. A WINNER.
Heather Barber: It represents good blood. Very good looking, good blood. Strong family ties and the ability to run, many yards. Which is the key to any relationship. He’s willing to go the distance and celebrate a little in the end zone. I’m confident that he would pull through more often than a guy with a last name of Shockey.
Heather Manning: Though a newbie, the name represents quality and a strong family background. Important in a spouse. Competitive and loves his older brother, thus the reason for why he would never think to wipe the field with is ass, though he was very tempted. Yeah, he may fuck up a bit – what man doesn’t – but he always pulls through in the end. And even when he doesn’t, it’s the southern accent that gets me.
Heather Sheffield: Again, just because a man isn’t perfect, doesn’t mean that things will go to hell in a hand basket. Because here we see OVERALL quality, which is more important than being really good at one specific thing. And name one person who wouldn’t want to be married to a man in the Hall of Fame. Either way, he’s good at what he does.
Heather Washington: The original. The first man that I knew, just knew, that I would marry. And if I had married him, it would make him an adulterous cradle robber, which is not something I look for in a husband, but with those teeth and that smile, so be it.
Though they might be prospects, I feel like I would do well as the future Mrs. Michael Knight.
“Misery is a communicable disease.” ~Martha Graham
For years, I’ve been in denial. Deep denial; for it couldn’t possibly be true. It was a myth perpetuated by other women to make themselves feel better for acting like heinous bitches. That was all. Nothing real, just a figment of the imagination and lo, I sound like a guy again, but I digress. Even if it was true and actually was a possibility, I had never been affected and I could never succumb to it. I’m always mean and bitchy, so there really could be no way for me to become meaner and bitchier. Really though, look at me:
See? Angry and scary and I could kick your ass (also one of the worst pictures ever, so be kind. Really). Ok, no, no I can’t really kick ass and I would never do so. But yes! I am indeed rather surly like most of the time so why would two weeks of the month be any different. Oh but they are. I’ve succumbed to every cranky PMSing bone in my body and have been feeding it copious amounts of Au Bon Pain half priced (after that is) pastries and mac and cheese. And last night I ate Chinese food in a way that I haven’t had Chinese food since Clinton was in office.
So, I’m going crazy and stuffing myself with MSG and of course, being the equal opportunity hater that I am, I have spread my loveliness throughout the land (READ: greater Metro DC area and through the internet). Which means that no matter how nice and kind and sweet you’ve been to me, even if you play Johnny Cash for me on command, I will most likely call you a little shit and tell you that I hate you.
I am one very pleasant person as of late. An invariable ray of sunshine for all those that surround me. Though I must admit that today is better. Today I got dressed in something other than cords and clogs and I didn’t stare at my carrots with a look of disgust and demand why (WHY?!?!) they weren’t deep fried and dipped in butter.
All of this is topped with a great big cherry that is my sudden, umm…aversion…to grapes in their liquefied and fermented form. No, really. And apparently I have developed the same aversion to both wheat and barely in that same form as well.
Anyway, I’d say that there’s optimism, but alas there is none. Save for, Stacypalooza v. 2.0 with new java script plug-ins. Well, la-di-freaking-da. And I mean that in the nicest most loving way that I can possibly muster up right now.
"It's snowing still," said Eeyore gloomily. "So it is." "And freezing." "Is it?" "Yes," said Eeyore. "However," he said, brightening up a little, "we haven't had an earthquake lately." ~A.A. Milne
I’ve felt so utterly and completely blessed lately. Really now, nothing says “Jesus loves me” like spending an hour, counting the gray hairs on my head (four), while sitting on Rock Creek. If ‘beltway’ is from the Latin for ‘parking lot’ then ‘rock creek parkway’ is from the German for ‘cluster fuck.’ And I am what would be from Old English for ‘bewildered’ which would is ‘amazed’ OR A-fucking-mazed that in a city where most of the inhabitants boast a College degree or higher, no one can drive.
But then this is pot/kettle syndrome again, where in Christmas has come early and I am now the proud owner of an additional parking ticket and a speeding ticket – thanks intersection cameras! I also have learned that I can both text message and make a u-turn (sans turn signal) in the middle of Gallery Place, without hitting a pedestrian.
And apropos of absolutely nothing, I will fight and come on get happy, that is if I can manage to get out of my own damn way once in awhile. You see, I would be happy go lucky and feel actually blessed (which I’ve apparently picked to be my word of the day), if I could stop being awful and just let things go without wanting to pull my hair out. Especially those grays, because then two will grow in their place and the last thing I want is a head full of gray.
There’s really no way to end this save to say that I’ve been singing The Gambler all day long and that last night I had a very difficult conversation with a four year old in which she: a) kept touching my face b) would not close her eyes c) mad me realize that I could do this whole parenting thing until bedtime and then I’d have to resort to tequila and I don’t even like tequila (that much) and d) she told me she would give me all of her dollars because she loves me.
And for those of you that think that it might be great to be friends with me, I can tell you that that would be unequivocally 100% true. As evidenced above, having me around makes my friends feel considerably better about themselves. Because one could be Me or one could be Awesome. And awesome , is a far better option.
"This fall I think you're riding for - it's a special kind of fall, a horrible kind. The man falling isn't permitted to feel or hear himself hit bottom. He just keeps falling and falling. The whole arrangement is designed for men who, at some time or other in their lives, were looking for something their own environment couldn't supply them with. Or they thought their own environment couldn't supply them with. So they gave up looking. They gave it up before they ever really even got started." ~J.D. Salinger
I'm often a beacon of build up then drastic disappointment. Which means that now would be a good time to mention my often submissive, overly sensitive behavior; laden with spending way too much time allowing for people to walk all over me. I do not get everything I want. I hardly ever aggressively go for anything, because of my laziness and fear and general neuroses. Though Stacy put it best – I don't feel I'm worthy of being happy, so what's the point?
This isn't a pity post. I don't do things for others to pity me. It's just a fact of my life that most things have occurred by happenstance and luck. Not because I worked tremendously hard for my freedom and walked 14 miles in the snow, up a hill to get to where I am today.
Today marks the first time that I have realized how badly I want something. Painstakingly and obsessively so. Two things actually, if I really want to put myself out there in the realm of admittance. It hurts to want something and fear – though I have ESP, so I KNOW – that things will not work out and I'll be left stranded and feeling even shitier than normal. It sucks, but it's so true.
This also marks the first time that I have realized that both of the 'things' that I so desperately want are almost attainable. I can reach out and touch it but I'll have to work to get that extra inch and have either in my grasp. There's still the awful nagging feeling that I should give up and that all the extra work and stress isn't really necessary. What is the point in fighting for something when I know that it will take an act of God to actually reach?
It's stupid. It's also very trivial and stupid. I know there are wars and poor Ethiopians etc., but in my little world, this right now, is so very important.
So the choice is this: Head down what might be a slippery slope to very bad things/doom/death in hopes that avid prayer/voodoo/reading of the Torah will help me get what I want? OR give up now, stop trying and retreat back to my room and whimper and never know what might have happened if I hadn't let my overwhelming consternation get in the way?
I have a sneaking suspicion that a decision has already been made.
“Mother love is the fuel that enables a normal human being to do the impossible.” ~Marion C. Garretty
She doesn’t do carbohydrates. She also chastises me on how much I drink. I’ll have you know that one glass of red wine a day, helps to prevent heart problems. She asked how many glasses I have per night, something like three on the nights that I do have wine; I just want a healthy heart. That’s all.
Though she doesn’t eat carbs, she encourages for me to do so. At least she did at Acadiana over broiled oysters with garlic parmesan on top, served with a small loaf of French bread. I drool. She kept shoving the bread in my face as I devoured the fried green tomatoes.
“You know you want some,” she taunted.
I gave a sideways glance and went back to the shrimp that covered my dish.
She kept shoving the bread in my face. I could smell aroma of the parmesan swirling in the garlic butter sauce.
“Fine” I picked off a piece of bread and inhaled deeply. You know, the pre-puke deep inhale. But I wouldn’t. Not at a table, in public next to the buttermilk biscuits and cab sauvignon/syrah blend.
I exhaled, and reached over as she lifted the plate to me and dipped in. Who was I to resist such deliciousness.
Her eyes got wide as she smiled and exclaimed: “YEAAAAAAHHHHH. That’s it.”
The initial taste was amazing and then my blackened yellowfin tuna with sweet corn pudding arrived and halfway through, I lost all taste. My stomach had hardened and I could barely breathe as I excused myself quickly and practically flung myself into a cab on K Street.
Oh, but I am a champ. You didn’t think otherwise did you? I didn’t puke. I kept up my inhaling and made it inside to my apartment. There’s not puking (or crying) in Jeff Tunks dining. You buck up and take it like a man and thank your lucky stars for his brilliance: All the while silently cursing the force that is Peg and her encouragement to KEEP EATING.
In the end though, I realize that it was karma. Something I totally deserved – death by New Orleans cuisine - for suggesting that I would ever think to get her precious baby boy drunk on his 21st birthday. But she can’t break me and G need not worry, for I will be providing the Ketel One.
"Don't cook. Don't clean. No man will ever make love to a woman because she waxed the linoleum – 'My God, the floor's immaculate. Lie down, you hot bitch.'" ~Joan Rivers
Mel, in the past week, has come home and baked more than once. One night she made 18 cupcakes, leaving six for me and her boyfriend. The next night she made a five layer chocolate cake with some sort of rich butter cream frosting that I know she made from scratch.
At some point she also empties the dishwasher and when I go searching for my favorite Tupperware, I find it tucked neatly among all of the other Tupperware that once was in a pile shoved into a cabinet. She's found a place for everything including a spot in the bathroom to put all the cleaning supplies, whereas Jam and I just kept them on the floor.
Upon first moving in she cleaned and reorganized the living room, bathroom, kitchen and hall closet. I would come home and she'd timidly ask for my thoughts and I'd shrug. Because I don't care about the location of our living room furniture, but my god, was I thankful.
She does all of this with a smile while I tread back to my room either drunk or exhausted (or both) and write and sleep. Then she reads her Bible and makes homemade pesto.
I pay the bills. I make sure the rent is in on time. I call the leasing office when shit needs to be fixed. And I reach the high shelves above the fridge, because she's too short.
It's come to my attention that in this particular relationship, I wear the pants. I'm not sure whether to be happy to have a roommate to do all the shit I usually put off until Sunday afternoons or to fear for any man that I may end up with. For it will be a rude awakening for the future Mr. HB, when he expects for the bathroom to be cleaned and I hand him a bottle of Clorox and with a little pat on the back and a smile, say "Have at it, champ."
"You can always tell a real friend: when you've made a fool of yourself he doesn't feel you've done a permanent job." ~Laurence J. Peter
The theme of Stacypalooza 2006: Bringing Indolence Back.
It’s marked – nay celebrated – by regaling in the true simplicity of life by doing absolutely nothing. Nothing. It means that the energy normally well reserved and preserved for a daily gym visit, has already been expended by putting the wine glass to the lips. Rinse and repeat 475 times. Repetitions build muscle don’t ya know. It also means subsisting on the basics; grapes – in liquid and fermented form – and cheese. Red or White and Soft or Hard. And a visceral need for all things forensic; or at least that’s how it felt. It’s a lovely existence, that is if you can bear to go without protein for 48 hours. The latter is probably the reason for my quick consumption of beans and rice and two (!!) BLTs with faux bacon that is.
So, in the end, that is all I have. Well that and a deep, deep love for Kris and Stacy. Those two make me smile and laugh and essentially help to relieve me of any neurotic, narcissistic, woe is me behavior that has plagued me for the past two weeks. It’s a good, good feeling. Let us only hope that any content feelings and kindness permeate to the upcoming week. Have I mentioned that Peg is coming? Oh, Peg is coming, though she will have no time for me. I’m also not speaking of her because I’m not over the Minnesota Twins debacle and that she’s going on a weekend excursion to Barcelona. Given that I’ve gone without swearing for the past two paragraphs I shall say, Barce – motherfucking – lona. Clearly, I’m over it and not jealous.
How about a picture of Stacy? And a cat? Not nearly as great as the baby toes, but it will suffice. For Stacy is gorgeous, even with her eyes closed. I’d show you a picture of Kris, but it ended up blurry, kind of like my vision after three solid nights of wine and cheese for dinner.